


How Long Can We Keep This Up?

by lemonheadedmegan (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lemonheadedmegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel AU. Fem!Cas. The relationship developing between Dean and Cassie over several years. Dean and Cassie start out as best friends, but how long will that last? Rated Explicit for themes and (eventual) smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (1) These kids go to a private school, and I've never been to one, but I decided it would be fun to write. Sorry if I mess things up. (2) Since this is AU, Cassie is a bit less . . . well, a bit less Canon!Castiel. She's more funny, gets the references, and is just plain less Castiel. So are the rest of the characters. (3) I've been on a Dawson's Creek kick the last couple weeks, so there is a section that's based off of that. I don't own Dawson's Creek, or SPN, so just nope.

Age 6

"Dean!" Cassie shouts. Dean has a hand wrapped around her long black braid. She twists around and punches him square in the chest. He stumbles to the ground; the shorter girl was a lot stronger than he thought. He glares up at her.

"I'm telling Ms. Campbell!" Dean says, leaping up from the ground and racing towards the building.

"Oh, yeah?" Cassie yells, chasing after him. Her uniform skirt makes it a little difficult, but she manages to catch up and grab the back of his jacket. "And what are you gonna tell her when she asks why I did it?"

"That you're a snot-faced brat!" Dean tries to pull away from her, but can't. She's got a grip around his shirt collar, too.

They fall to the ground, Cassie sitting on Dean's chest. "That's not gonna work, Dean. Stop being stupid." She stands, and helps Dean up.

"Yeah, okay," Dean grunts before taking off in the opposite direction. Cassie plays along.

 

Age 9

 

"Dean?" Cassie whispers. It's the middle of the night, she doesn't really expect him to answer.

She had spent the night over at the Winchester's that night, not for the first time and not for the last. She was sleeping on the bottom bunk in Dean's bedroom.

"Yeah, Cassie?" Dean whispers back just as quietly.

Cassie's father had left them three weeks ago, and the little girl had been so very upset about it. She never talked about it, but always insisted that she wanted to be near Dean. Her mother thought it was some weird coping mechanism, to be near a male presence that she associated with goodness, and allowed her for the first time since her father left to stay the night at Dean's.

"I'm scared." She can hear shuffling, the bunk bed shaking as Dean climbs down the ladder. The next thing she knows, Dean is poking her to move. She shifts back enough so that Dean has room to crawl in.

Dean wraps his arms around her. "Don't be afraid, Cassie. You can share my dad, okay?"

Cassie wants to roll her eyes, to tell Dean he was being stupid, because boys are always stupid. She knows it doesn't work like that, that they can't  _share_  dads, but Dean's words calm her. She nods her head, takes a deep breath, and shuts her eyes. She falls asleep, hearing Dean humming a song she doesn't recognize.

 

Age 12

 

" _Dean_ ," Cassie groans. "Do you  _have_  to be so gross?"

Dean is currently shoving his face full of popcorn. They're sitting in the extra cheap movie theater, the one that has older films that have long been available to the public. It has grimy bathrooms, and the last few rows always smell like pee, and everyone knows not to put your head on the headrest or else they'd be subjected to getting lice.

The pair are getting ready to watch  _Breakfast Club_  again. Dean won't admit it, but he likes it just as much as Cassie.

Dean says around his mouthful, "Yes." The opening bit starts, while Dean sucks down about half the soda they're  _supposed_  to be sharing.

Cassie rolls her eyes, puts her feet up on the empty seat in front of her, and tries to concentrate on the film.

Later that evening, back at Dean's house, they're eating dinner with Mr. Winchester. Mrs. Winchester is staying late at her journalism job, where she recently got promoted which meant more work and more hours. Mr. Winchester made pizza, which looks a little too perfect to be homemade and Cassie saw the freezer box anyways, and served them grape soda. Mrs. Winchester and Ms. Novak would both have a heart attack if they saw what the kids were eating.

When Cassie gets back from using the bathroom, Dean is on his way upstairs. He stops her in the hall.

"Hey, you're staying over tonight, right?" he asks. He's biting the side of his lip, looking up at her (because he still hasn't gotten that danged growth spurt yet) like she might actually say no.

"Dean. It's Saturday. I always stay over on Saturday." She's looking at him like he's crazy, because, really, they'd had this tradition for almost two years now.

He nods. "Okay." He tosses her a pair of his clean pajama pants and a t-shirt.

 

Age 15

 

"Dean! Dean!" Cassie chokes out breathlessly.

Dean's straddling her, squeezing his legs around her so she can't wriggle away. Cassie thinks she might die if she doesn't get some air in her lungs, get some relief from this torture.

Cassie hates being tickled. Hates it likes she hates Hitler or Brussels sprouts. And Dean was only just now realizing this.

"No way, Cassie-girl, I've got  _years_  to make up. No way am I gonna let you down this easy!" He squeezes her ribs, extracting a shriek and a loud peel of laughter.

"Dean Winchester, I hate you!" she screams, trying to push him off. Unfortunately, this last year of puberty has really taken its toll. He's now about six inches taller, with a good fifty pounds on her. He's restraining her arms, but her legs are blessedly free. She yanks her knees up suddenly, pounding Dean in the back. The air whooshes out of his lungs and he falls back, giving Cassie the chance to jump up away from him.

Little Sammy barges in the door, then. "Are you two having  _sex_?!" he shouts.

Cassie starts shaking in laughter, but Dean flushes red as he tries to catch that breath. Cassie drops onto the bed, gripping her stomach. That doesn't do too much good for Dean's esteem, but he won't let it show.

"Please," he scoffs at the eleven year old. "Like if I had a girl up here she'd be screaming—" he starts a falsetto tone, mocking his best friend—" _Dean Winchester, I hate you!_ " This makes Cassie laugh even harder, actually rolling off onto the floor. "Like I'd have _Castielle_  screaming my name."

Sammy makes a face, and just backs out of the door.

Dean collapses onto the bed, giggling.

He doesn't realize for a long moment that Cassie has stopped laughing with him.

 

Age 16

 

"Dean, I don't know." Cassie's worrying her lower lip, standing by the door.

"I don't understand, you've been sleeping over since you were like ten." Dean gets off the floor, only to sit back down in his swiveling desk chair. He makes slow circles.

"I just think our emerging hormones are destined to alter our relationship, and I'm trying to limit the fallout." Cassie picked at an open seam in bottom hem of her shirt.

Dean stops spinning, facing Cassie. His arms are crossed over the back of the chair, and he's grinning like an idiot. "Your . . . _emerging hormones_  aren't developing a thing for me, are they?"

Cassie rolls her eyes and glares at him. "A thing? No, I'm not getting a  _thing_  for you, Dean. I've known you for too long. I've seen you burp, barf, pick your nose, scratch your butt. I do _not_ have a thing for you."

"Then what's the problem?" He resumes his spinning. "What's with this weird When Harry Met Sally male/female difference crap? It doesn't apply to us, we transcend it!"

"I have  _breasts_ , now, Dean. You've got . . . genitalia." Cassie blushes, and crosses her arms over said breasts.

"I've always had genitalia." Still spinning.

"But there's more of it!" Cassie exclaims, fed up. She flops herself on the floor.

Dean stops spinning. "How do you know?" His eyes are narrowed and he's got an eyebrow raised. There's a strange set to his mouth, not that Cassie would see, as her face is currently looking away. He gets up and sits on his bed. It had been traded out for a full when Dean was about twelve, but that didn't stop the best friends from sharing it.

"Long fingers… I have to go."

"No, you don't. I can prove it."

"Yeah?"

"Listen, we can still remain friends, despite any . . . mounting sexual theoretics."

Cassie pauses, standing up. "I don't think it works that way, Dean."

Dean groans. "Come on; don't get female on me, Cassie. I don't wanna have to start calling you  _Castielle._ " He's sporting a huge grin now, tucking his hands behind his head.

" _Castielle_  this!" she mutters before leaping onto the bed, attacking him with punches. He laughs, catching her elbows and pushing her until she falls off the bed with a thud. Dean starts tickling her.

Before it gets too far, Cassie shouts, "Okay, I give, I give!" Dean releases his hold on her and helps her up.

"We're friends, okay?" Dean says, looking into her blue eyes. "No matter how many hormones we acquire? Deal?" He sticks his hand out.

She grasps it and agrees, "Deal."

"And—let's never talk about this again," Dean says, leaning back onto the bed.

"You got it."

They climb into the bed, shut off the lights, and turn away from each other. Dean's staring out of the window, contemplating what Cassie had said. It was completely ridiculous, wasn't it? That they could strangely come out of this friendship, and into something _more_  because of hormones?

Cassie was staring at the blackness of the rest of the room, trying to go to sleep, to stop the images of Dean's lips against her own from flooding into her brain.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Age 17

Dean's staring across the lunchroom, watching Cassie get her lunch. Entering their senior year hadn't been very eventful, and now that the first semester was almost over, Dean finds himself wondering what was going to happen next. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. Cassie is sitting down in front of him, slamming her tray of would-be lasagna down.

"What's got your panties in a bunch?" he asks, grabbing the fork.

Cassie huffs and starts peeling the orange, slicing the skin with her nail. "Chuck."

Dean nods and sticks a forkful of the glop in his mouth. Just as bad as it looks.

Chuck was weird, always obsessing over Cassie somehow. Once he'd gone as far as to ask what she was wearing under her school uniform. Cassie had slapped the shorter guy, and kicked him in shin before sulking off. Dean had threatened to rip his lungs out, but Cassie had assured him it wasn't necessary, that she had left sizable marks.

"What this time?"

Cassie blushes. "He asked if I was a virgin." The orange is finally free of skin.

Dean chokes on his bite of lasagna-slop. "What?" he grinds out. He reaches for the bottle of water to alleviate his throat.

"I told him no, and then I kneed him in the jewels." She takes a delicate bite of the orange.

The bottle of water tries to drown Dean, and he is suddenly coughing worse than before, and his shirt is wet. He jumps up from the table, vaguely gesturing to his mouth to explain, and darts to the bathroom.

He looks in the mirror, but all he is seeing was red. In his head, the running mantra is "I told him no," and he can vaguely imagine different scenarios. Cassie on her back, some guy pounding into her. Cassie on her hands and knees, being taken from behind. Cassie sitting on top of the guy, getting the ride of her life.

The worst part is that Dean sort of imagine how the guy would look. He knows what he looks like when he's with a girl, and he bets that Cassie would go for the big, macho type guys. Like Michael and his gang.  _Ugh_ , maybe it was one of them. 

But he has no clue what Cassie would look like without her clothes. He has no idea if she would scream, or just have those breathy little sighs, or swear, or be rough or gentle. She is the unknown, her body and actions are just a blur to him. 

It only makes him angrier.

He slams his fist down on the porcelain sink, hears more than feels the little crunch, and roots in his pocket, digging out the keys to his clunker. He leaves the school campus to just drive around town, trying to cool off. He doesn't know  _why_  he was so angry.

Cassie is his friend. He is Cassie's friend. He isn't anything else, not an older brother, not a boyfriend, not anything more than just a friend. And friends are allowed to feel . . . concern for each other, right? Friends are allowed to be a little  _shocked_  when such interesting news comes their way. Friends, however, are not supposed to feel the way Dean is feeling. Not possessive, not so  _angry_.

Dean ends up at the city park. It's empty, because the elementary school hasn't even let out yet, so Dean sits on a bench. He kicks the toe of his boot at the ground, making an indentation.

Dean sits there for a long time, long enough for kids to have shown up and left again, long enough for the sun to sink in the sky. Long enough for Cassie to find him.

She hasn't changed out of her uniform yet, so she's got the black skirt, white button-up, and blue tie like everyone else. She's put on her favorite jacket, a beige trench coat that Dean always makes fun of her for. Her black hair has been pulled from her usual braid, the waves billowing around her as she walks to his location. Dean doesn't think she's ever been more beautiful.

She peers down at him for a long minute before throwing her hands in the air and rolling her eyes. She slams her body onto the bench beside him.

He still doesn't speak. They sit there for a good twenty minutes before Cassie starts shivering. It's about fifty degrees now that it's dark, and she's got that trench coat that doesn't have much insulation. Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and tries to put it on her shoulders.

She stands up, glaring at him. Her face is clearly illuminated by the lamp post behind them.

"No," she growls.

"So you're just gonna let yourself get sick because you're mad at me?" Dean asks, trying to follow her with the jacket.

"I'm not the one who left in the middle of lunch, let his best friend walk home, let his parents worry about him, or hid in a kids' park!" she screams. She shoves her hands in her coat pockets, turning away from him. He can hear a frustrated growl coming from her throat.

"Just take the damn jacket, Cas. You know your mom'll be pissed if you get sick because of me." He puts the jacket around her shoulders, but she rips it off.

"Dean. Tell me why you left." She shoves the leather jacket back into his chest, holding it there until he lifts his hand to grab it.

Dean hung his head. "I don't know."

"Bullshit!" Cassie calls. "That's bullshit, and you know it." Her voice lowers into a whisper, shaking a bit at the end. Dean knows she's probably crying right about now.

"I—Sammy got sick and Dad needed me to come home. I came here after Dad got back." Dean was lying through his teeth, and they both knew it.

"Don't—don't talk to me if you're going to lie," Cassie hissed, stalking away.

The rest of the week, Cassie walked to school. Dean followed right next to her with his ancient rust bucket, begging her to just get in the car. She studiously ignored him. At lunch, Cassie sat with Becky Rosen, the girl who wrote gay incestuous porn in class. During the three afternoon classes they shared, Cassie didn't have a choice but to sit next to Dean, but she ignored him just the same. He put folded up notes on her desk, but she flicked them to the floor. Dean grabbed them up at the end of class. On the way home, their morning ritual was repeated.

On the morning of their last day of the semester, Dean is waiting outside Cassie's house with his car, just like always. He doesn't actually expect her to get in, so when she opens the door and plops herself in the passenger seat, Dean is shocked. Dean throws the car into drive before she can change her mind. He purposefully takes the long way to school.

Dean is prepared to start a rigorous inquisition, but Cassie starts first.

"I'm sorry for ignoring you. It was childish and inconsiderate for your emotions. I have a somewhat valid excuse, but I'm not sure that you'll want to hear it." She's fiddling with the hem of her skirt over her knees.

"What's your excuse?" Dean asks, more out of curiosity than anything.

"I had PMS."

"Oh God."

"Told you so."

Dean laughs, and Cassie joins in, because it's so completely ridiculous. They've been friends for eleven years, and they have stupid fights, about stupid things, but it always comes back to this.

Dean tries to ignore the fact that his eyes keep drifting to her knees, that his gaze keeps cutting to her face to simply admire the curve of her cheekbones, her long dark eyelashes, her pink lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Age 18

It's been six months since that conversation, and Dean's just now starting to understand why he was so upset. Why he's been subtly checking out Cassie every so often. He has a crush on her. Great. And wasn't it he, two years ago, who assured Cassie that they could go beyond the stereotype? That they could be friends without developing romantic feelings?

Stupid feelings.

They're at their graduation ceremony, and since it's such a small class, Cassie is in the row in front of him, her black hair a stark contrast to the white of the polyester cap and gown. He can't see her face, but knows it'll be lit up in pure excitement. She was eager to get on with her life, to go on to college. Dean refuses to think about the fact that she's going all the way to Kansas State, and is going to be living on campus there.

Dean's getting an apartment about five minutes from the garage he's been working at since he turned eighteen, and that was about an hour and a half from KSU. He knows he won't be able to see Cassie as often, but he also knows that it's a part of growing up, of being an  _adult_.

Being an adult is stupid.

Cassie's name is called, and she walks across the stage, shakes hand with the principal and the vice principal, and returns to her seat. Her grin stretches across her whole face, her blue eyes dancing in the summer sun.

Dean does the same when it's his turn, but he does it in a daze. Cassie winks at him as he passes her row on the way back, and his heart squeezes. Then it's time to toss their caps, but Dean just pulls his off and holds it. Cassie throws hers, and Dean watches it sail higher than them all, seeming to touch the clouds.

Cassie jumps and climbs over the row of chairs to assault Dean with a hug.

"Oh my god, can you believe we're finally graduated?" she gushes. Her arms are tight around his neck, her cheek on his. He brings his own arms up to grip her waist, lifting her from the ground easily. He takes a moment to breathe in the scent of her soft hair. Lavender, just like it's always been.

When her grip loosens in the slightest, he sets her down on her feet. She slides her white heels off, picks them up, and drags him by the hand to where their parents are waiting. Mr. Winchester and Sammy are the only two there, though. Mrs. Winchester had a meeting, but was there for the actual ceremony. Ms. Novak had to leave in a similar manner for an appointment, leaving Cassie and the guys.

Mr. Winchester wants to take them out for dinner, but Cassie and Dean decline, saying they are all going to Jo's place for the meal. Dean is pulled aside by his father while Cassie goes to hunt down Jo.

When Dean finds Cassie after talking with his father, his grin is almost as large as hers. Cassie turns at the call of her name and sees Dean holding up a set of keys.

"Oh my god!" she squeals, running to give him another hug. He tries to ignore the sensation of her breasts against his chest. "I can't believe your dad gave you the car!" It's quickly decided that everyone is going in Dean's car, the one his dad just gave him. Everyone shoves their white gowns and caps in the trunk, and changes into the regular clothes they brought.

Jo pulls Cassie into the bathroom, and the last thing Dean sees of her for quite a while is the flutter of her black hair around her shoulders. Dean throws on his Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of jeans, and puts his formal wear with the gowns like the rest of the guys.

Dean, Ash, Victor, and even Adam are all crowded around Dean's new car, admiring her. It's a 1967 Chevy Impala, and has been the pride and joy of Mr. Winchester for a long time. The V8 327 4 barrel engine had been babied, all parts properly taken care of. Ash is the first to look away, his jaw dropping open. This causes Adam and Victor to look up, and their shocked faces lead Dean to turn around.

And he is astounded.

Jo is first in the line, a camisole and a pair of daisy dukes showing off her skin. Ash's eyes literally bug out, and he shuts his mouth real quick.

Next comes Lisa, stunning in her shorts that are longer than Jo's, but still very short. She's wearing a tube top, her hefty cleavage threatening to fall out at any second. Her skin is glowing with the tan she's gotten so far this summer. Victor's eyebrows shoot up as he takes her in.

Then Bela, wearing a blue dress that ends a few inches below her rear, and pushes her breasts up, almost spilling over. Adam swallows compulsively.

And finally there's Cassie.

Cassie has on a blue dress, tight around her torso. The bust does something to make her usually meek and unnoticeable breasts seem larger, pushing them up. The skirt of it goes down to just above the middle of her thigh.  It's the most conservative of the other girl's clothes, though it's still sexy beyond belief, but Dean has a sneaking suspicion it hasn't come from her closet. Cassie  _never_  wore sexy things, not on purpose.

The four of them stop in a line, hands on their hips. Well, Cassie has both her hands behind her back, but the other three have a very confident stance. Her hair is pulled into a pony tail, exposing the softness of her neck. Even from this distance, Dean can see Cassie's eyes standing out more than ever. 

"We're making a pit stop to get beer," Jo says, eyes flicking to Dean. He nods, and turns to get in the car. He wishes to God that Cassie doesn't sit next to him.

Which, of course, she does. Dean's in the driver's seat, Cassie slides in next to him delicately, trying to pull the dress down a little. Jo's next, followed by Ash. They're pressed up tight together, Cassie's breast pressed against Dean's arm. Jo's right behind her, her breast against Cassie's arm, and Ash is just staring at the two girls in front of him.

Victor, Lisa, Bela, and Adam get in the back seat, and they're off to the city limit's alcohol and tobacco shop.

Jo says, "Cassie, you'll need to ask one of the people going in there to buy us beer."

"What?" Cassie squawks. "Why me?"

"Because you're unattached and you look the oldest."

Cassie pouts, because she doesn't want to be used like this, but she wants alcohol, and Jo's words are true.

When they arrive at the shop, Dean parks off to the side and everyone scrounges for all the cash they have. They come up with about one-twenty, which they feel is good enough for eight people. Everyone climbs out of the car and stay off to the side, except Cassie, who stands just by the front. Ash gave her a cigarette to smoke, to make her look even older.

Cassie really doesn't want to do it, she's getting extremely nervous, but she sucks it up. She pulls the first drag of the cigarette, and decides that she would never do it again. She pulls the second drag just as a man is pulling up.

He's older, maybe early forties, but he's well built. He eyes Cassie up and down, and she keeps her gaze on him and grins.

When he gets out of his car, Cassie walks up closer, resting her hip on the hood. She blows out a smoky breath.

"What's your name?" Cassie asks flirtatiously.

"I'm Brady." He sticks his hand out to shake her hand. "What's your name?"

Cassie smiles wider, shaking his large hand. "Cassie."

"Well, there, Cassie, is there something you need?"

"Yes, I was hoping you could help me out? See, I'm not twenty-one yet, and I—"

Brady backs up. "No, I'm not gonna buy you alcohol. Wait until you're twenty-one." He starts to go around her, but Cassie grabs his wrist. She crowds him, presses her breasts to his chest, and corners him to the car. Flicks the cigarette between her fingers.

"Are you sure?" she purrs lowly. "I'll make sure it's worth it," she continues, with a roll of her hips. She can see his indecision, and watches his face as he cracks.

"How much do you need?" he says with a sigh.

"However much you can get," she murmurs, putting the wad of cash into his pocket. He nods, and she waits by his car for him to get back. He returns with a cart (who knew that alcohol shops had  _carts_?) full of beer, with a couple bottles of vodka and tequila. He helps her load it all into the Impala, Dean and the others waiting by the dumpsters.

"This is a pretty sweet car you got," Brady admits, shutting the trunk.

"It's a friend of mine's," she corrects, winking at him. He goes closer to her, putting a hand on her hip.

"Now what's this you said about it being worth my while?"

Cassie chuckles. She's  _really_  uncomfortable about this part. Not like she hasn't done it before, though. She reaches up and pulls him into a kiss, parting her lips to start it heavily. The kiss lasts for only a minute before his hands start to wander. When his fingers drift up the dress to skim the thong she's wearing, she starts quivering with nerves. Brady's a lot older than she's used to, and a complete stranger.

Brady's fingers are just barely touching her outer folds when Dean rushes him. Brady gets punched on the jaw, ripping his mouth away from Cassie's. Brady falls to the ground and Dean straddles him, punching him repeatedly.

"Dean! What the hell!" Cassie screams, reaching to pull Dean off. It doesn't work, and soon Ash and Victor are there, too, pulling Dean away. Adam is helping the guy up, shoving him towards his own car.

"You didn't say you were gonna let him  _touch_  you!" Dean shouts. He grips the tops of Cassie's arms, fingers easily overlapping. Her back's against the side of the Impala, and she's looking up at Dean with the strangest expression.

"What does it matter, Dean? We got the booze." She tries to shove him off her, but can't. He's too strong.

His fingers tighten, and Cassie knows she's going to have bruises. It scares her, because Dean has never gotten this rough, has never actually hurt her before.

"What does it matter? Cassie—you just—don't you— _ugh_ , fuck!" He shakes her a little bit before turning and letting her go. She stumbles, but catches herself. She rips off her heels and tosses them at his back. He doesn't turn.

" _What does it matter_? Tell me!" she shrieks. The girls go to her side, shushing her.

"It's okay, darling, he's just being stupid. That's how he always is," Bela murmurs.

"Yeah, Dean's just a pile of shit," Jo tells her.

"A  _hot_  pile of shit," Lisa mutters under her breath.

That makes the four of them laugh at the pun. Because underneath their strong, sexy woman vibe, they're all four just twelve year old boys.

Adam, Victor, and Ash are talking to Dean by the dumpsters. Dean punches the dumpster a few times before Victor grabs him and slams him against it, talking in his face.

When Dean returns, he's silent. He won't look Cassie in the eye. The girls pile in the back, the guys up front. Dean drives to Jo's house, an AC/DC tape playing. Jo unlocks the front door, letting the other seven inside. They make themselves relatively comfortable on her sofa after all the beer is shoved into the fridge. They start with the hard booze.

Jo's mom runs a bar, so the house is full of shot glasses. Cassie sits as far away from Dean as she can, but because they're at a table, it's really not that far. She plays with the necklace around her neck; a little trinket that she'd gotten on her sixteenth birthday . . . from Dean. She lets the amulet go. It bounces against her chest, and settles in the dip between her breasts.

Jo pours everyone out a round of tequila, a slice of lime, and sets the salt out. Two rounds go down, before Lisa gets the great idea that her boyfriend should lick the salt off her neck. Victor complies nicely, but Jo tosses an empty lime peel at them. They turn on music.

They're pretty drunk before they think the beer is cold enough to drink, and they only take down one case before half of them are passed out. Jo's asleep on Ash, both on the floor. Lisa and Bela are passed out on the couch, and Adam dropped by the toilet, where he'd been getting sick. Dean thought he was a pansy. 

Dean, Victor, and Cassie are still conscious. It turned out that Cassie had  _amazing_  tolerance. Considering the fact that she was eighteen years old and just over 100 pounds, it was outrageous. Even better than Dean. Dean is pretty sure that Cassie had finished a whole bottle of liquor herself, along with several beers. But he's drunk, what does he know? Victor's a boring drunk. He just sits in the living room and stares at the floor, occasionally muttering nonsense.

Dean is a happy drunk. He sits too close to Cassie, tells her repeatedly how awesome she is. He laughs loudly at the jokes he tells her, wonders why they've never done this all together before, why he never tried to get Cassie drunk once.

Cassie lays in her position on the kitchen floor, quiet. She occasionally swings her big blue eyes up look at Dean, but doesn't say much. The CD they put on had ended ages ago, but no one was willing to get up and change it. Her dress is hiked up, but she hasn't noticed just yet. Her thong is visible, and that means that more than enough skin is showing. Cassie looks at Dean; he's fallen silent, and she wants to know if he's passed out.

The turning of her head makes her a little dizzy, but she can see that Dean's gaze is angled at her, only downward. Her legs? She looks down. Oh. Her panties. She should be offended, right? She should punch his arm and push her dress down to cover her black thong. She should yell at him. She should do something to stop him when he brushes his warm, rough fingers across her knee.

She shouldn't arch up into his touch.

She isn't even thinking properly anymore, not since she felt the heat of his fingertips. She just  _feels_. She feels the need for more, she feels the emptiness that she knows he could fix. She feels their friendship cracking, something that could be  _maybe_  peeking through.

"Cassie," Dean sighs. He lays down opposite her, his ankles at her eye level, and keeps his hot fingers around her knee. From this angle, he can surely see most of everything, but Cassie doesn't think about it. She can only think about the feeling on her skin, the prickling of sweat on the back of her neck. The heat between her legs.

"Cassie," Dean murmurs.

The next thing she hears is a snore.

It floods her mind, then.

Dean doesn't feel this attraction. He doesn't know what he just did to her. He doesn't  _know_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor character deaths.

Age 19

It's spring break of freshman year for Cassie; she goes back home to Lawrence, to her mother's house.

What she finds there is terrible.

Her mother is sick, has been for months now, but has refused to go to the doctor. Cassie doesn't know how she's been hiding this. She's been coughing up blood, can't breathe properly, and is in a tremendous amount of pain. Cassie hauls her unwilling mother to the doctor.

It's April twelfth, and her mother has stage four lung cancer. She refuses treatment. She has less than four months.

Cassie brings her home and puts her to bed. Calls Dean.

The phone goes to voicemail.

Cassie slides down the pillar on the front porch, wraps her arms around her folded legs, and sobs.

The phone rings inside the house. Cassie doesn't hear it. She doesn't hear anything for a long while, doesn't even move until there are strong arms around her torso, pulling her away from herself.

"Cassie," Dean murmurs. Cassie chokes out a sob. "Cassie, talk to me. What happened?"

She burrows her way closer to him, breathing in his smell, feeling the warmth of him seep into her cold arms.

"Cassie! Do I need to call someone—a doctor? What's wrong?" He's pulling her away to look her in the face.

"She's—mother's—cancer—four months— _months_ —won't  _let me_ —" she sobs, trying to get back in his arms. She just wants to be safe and warm, she doesn't want to feel the breath-stealing bonds around her chest, squeezing the life out of her. She just wants it to be okay again, doesn't want to feel the burning of her heart on a pyre. She just wants her best friend.

Dean pulls her in, hugs her tight. He doesn't really know what else to do, so he just holds her.

The next morning

Dean is still holding Cassie in the same position as the night before—she's curled up in his lap after he carried her in. They're on the sofa, and Cassie has dried tears leaving trails down her face. Dean's watch beeps off, waking them up.

"Dean—I'm so—"

Dean puts a finger over her lips. "Don't say it. Go brush your teeth and I'll make you breakfast."

"But I'm—" she mumbles around his finger.

"No. Go brush your teeth; your breath smells like ass." He picks her up—man, when did he get to be this strong?—and sets her on her feet.

Cassie rolls her eyes and goes to the bathroom. She cracks the door to her mother's room, hears her drag in a harsh breath, and has tears well in her eyes. She wipes them away as best she can as she goes to brush her teeth. She notices things in the mirror as she brushes her teeth; the strained red eyes, tear tracks, and rumpled clothes. Not to mention her hair—ugh, gross.

She changes her clothes and brushes her hair, washes her face. Not much can be done about the bloodshot eyes, though. She silently moseys down the stairs, hears Dean banging around in the kitchen.

She sits on the island counter and watches him work at the stove. He's mixing eggs around and has bacon on a skillet. Her mother always bought too much food and didn't know what to do with it.

Dean keeps his back to her and makes two plates, leaving a serving in the skillet. He turns around to get silverware and screams. Like a girl. Cassie bursts out laughing, grabbing her middle with the effort. Dean's hand is over his heart, and his breathing is harder.

"Mother of god, Cassie, why are you so  _quiet_?" he asks, pushing her knee to the side to get the utensils. He holds a fork up to her and pushes a plate towards her. "Eat," he instructs. He pours two glasses of orange juice.

She hops off the counter and grabs a forkful of egg. It's hot and burns her tongue, and she gulps down the cold juice.

"So how did you brush  _your_  teeth, huh?" she asks. Dean was always Mr. Gung-Ho Hygiene, and he would  _not_  skip brushing his teeth.

"I had an extra toothbrush in the car." He bites off half a slice of bacon, not meeting her gaze.

"In your car. Right…" Cassie tries the bacon. Mmm, so delicious.

Dean nods, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

"Something you wanna tell me, Dean?" Dean's a terrible liar, and Cassie knows it, too.

"Nope."

"You sure?"

He sighs. "Fine! I've been sleeping in my car the last two weeks." He finally meets her eyes.

"Why's that?"

"I had an apartment and a roommate, but he grew pot in his room, and somehow one of his girlfriends got pissed and told the cops, and we both got kicked out on our asses. The only reason I didn't get charged was because Dad's friend Bobby on the force knew I'd never do drugs, and had nothing to do with it. I begged him not to tell Dad, and he didn't, but I didn't expect to be out of a place to stay this long, and I really,  _really_  don't wanna go back home until I do." He sucks in a huge breath; he'd been talking really fast.

"Go grab your stuff."

"What?"

"Well, you've got to shower somewhere, don't you?"

"Yeah, but . . . Are you sure?"

"I mean, if you'd rather not stay here, that's fine; I can totally understand that, with what's going on right now. But I'm just offering you a bed and a hot shower." Cassie brings a bite of eggs to her mouth.

Dean pulls her into a tight hug, effectively cutting off her air. She pounds her fists on his shoulders for him to let her go. He chuckles and pulls away.

"Wait—where  _have_ you been showering, hmm?" Cassie asks, swatting away his hand that was coming to ruffle her hair.

"The garage has a shower in the back, but it only runs on cold and the water pressure is crap."

"Well, go get your things and I'll start the water." She places their dirty dishes in the sink and shoos Dean out the front door. She goes upstairs into the guest room; it is a disaster. Dust coats everything, the linens haven't been used in ten years, and the bathroom is just plain gross. He will have to use the one in her room, then.

She places clean towels on the counter and turns the water on, adjusting the temperature. She wanders in to her bedroom, contemplating it. It looks the same as she'd left it during the last break. Dean comes into her room then, asking where he should put his bag. He has a back pack and a duffel, that's it.

"Just on the floor for now, until I get the guest room straightened out. The water's on." She leaves the room to give him a bit of privacy, and starts to work on the guest room.

Most of the linens and both the mattresses will have to be scrapped, the floors and walls will need scrubbing. The bathroom is a nightmare. All in all, it will take some time. It hits her, then, that she'll have to sort through the things in her mother's room at some point, to find documents and things. Because her mother won't be there to do it.

Cassie feels the tears spring up, spill over, and slide down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away, she doesn't have shoulder-shaking sobs. She just can't stop. Cassie goes to her mother's door, peers in, and, upon seeing her mother's eyes blinking up at her, steps in.

"Good morning," Cassie tries to put on false cheer. "Are you hungry? There are eggs."

Her mother shakes her head, raises a hand to her mouth and coughs.

"Do you need anything? Do you want me to stay with you?" She shakes her head again. Cassie nods, tells her she'll be back to check on her in an hour or so, and backs out of the room.

She sits at the desk chair in her bedroom, picking at the hem of her shirt. She hears the water turn off, and a few minutes later, Dean comes out. He's dressed in a flannel shirt over a tee, and jeans. He pads over and sits on the bed, opposite her.

Cassie clears her throat. "I need to contact my father," she says, voice nothing more than a hushed whisper. She hasn't talked to her father in ten years, when he signed away all his rights and divorced her mother. She doesn't think about him very much anymore, either.

Dean nods. Cassie gets up to clear out a few drawers for him.

"It'll be a week at least before we can get the guest room sorted, so we get to share. Just like old times." She moves to let him put his belongings in the dresser. She gathers the linens from her bed and puts them in the dirty laundry. Dean helps her make the bed.

"Um—are you sure that's the best idea?" he asks. He sounds almost  _nervous_.

"What do you mean?" Cassie returns.

"I mean—we're nineteen years old, we're adults. We—it's different than when we were kids." He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor.

"I don't understand."

Dean heaves a sigh. He looks to the side, squinting. "You have breasts now, and I have genitalia."

Cassie bursts out laughing for the second time that morning. She felt bad for laughing with Dean (well, at him) because her mother was sick, and she should be 100% concentrated on her, right? But she really missed hanging out with Dean all the time; they'd been limited to occasional visits and phone calls recently. The reminder of the conversation she'd initiated years ago was too much. They were sixteen, and Cassie had been nervous because she had started realizing what hormones sixteen year old girls had, and how teenage boys were.

"You've always had genitalia," she chokes out.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Shut up, you know what I mean. Things—are different. You should  _know_  this!" His face is flushed red. He's  _embarrassed_?

"What? That you'll probably have morning wood, that you have a functioning penis, that you get horny sometimes? Jesus Christ, Dean, I'm not an idiot. Why do you think I freaked out when we were like sixteen?" She's gripping her stomach and lying on the bed, chortling with laughter.

Dean huffs and sits down on the bed.

"Dean, as long as you promise me that you won't hump my leg in the middle of the night, it doesn't make a difference to me." She takes a deep breath and forces herself to stop laughing.

Dean sighs again and punches her shoulder. "Please, don't flatter yourself."

"Do you have work today?" Cassie asks.

"Nope, I have the next couple days off. Which means you get my help with whatever you need."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky you."

Three weeks later

Dean is in the finished guest room now, finally. Cassie ended up having to withdraw from the university; there was no other solution. She wanted to spend as much time with her mother as possible, and school wasn't a part of that. She swears she will return in the future, though.

Cassie is often in her mother's room, keeping her a semblance of company. They don't talk very much, but they play Scrabble quite a bit. The one time Cassie asked for a contact point for her father, her mother had looked away and requested sleep. Cassie complied, not wanting to push it. She looked everywhere she could think of. When she thought about it, she didn't know if her father was even in the country. Surely he couldn't be dead—her mother would have told her.

Dean does housework when he's not at work. He wants to pay Cassie somehow, but can't spare the cash. So he fixes the doorjamb, he mows the lawn, he repairs the broken back of the sofa.

They continue as such for the next three months.

Three months later

Cassie is sitting on the scratchy floral couch. She has a cup of tea, which used to be hot but isn't anymore. There are people milling about her house, people she doesn't know, people who say they remember her from she was  _this_  tall. People who sit next to her and offer condolences. She wishes they would leave.

 

 

She found contact information for her father. She dialed the number, let it ring. 

_*Ring, ring, ring*_

_Woman: Hello?_

_Cassie: Um, hi?_

_Woman: Who is this?_

_Cassie: I'm looking for a, uh, a Mr. Novak? Is he there?_

_Woman: Who is this?_

_Cassie: My name's Cassie. I'm calling about his wife._

_Woman: His wife? I'm his wife. Who the hell are you?_

_Cassie:_

_Woman: I said, who the hell are you?_

_Cassie: Um, look, can you just tell him that I called?_

_Woman: You ring me up, asking to talk to my husband?  Are you trying to play some sick joke? Is that what this is? Because it sure as hell ain't funny!_

_*dialtone*_

_*Ring, ring, ring*_

_Woman: Hello?!_

_Cassie: Ma'am, I wasn't trying to play a joke, I'm just trying to find Mr. Novak!_

_Woman: He's dead! He's dead! He killed himself three weeks ago! I don't know who you are, Cassie, but don't you ever call me again!_

 

Her tea is cold now. A woman, she doesn't say her name, doesn't say hello, just sits down and places her hand on Cassie's forearm.

"It'll get better, you'll see," she says. Her voice is tinted with a southern accent, and her skin is the color of dark chocolate. Cassie likes her. When the woman gets up, Cassie's eyes follow her.

John, Mary and Sam are here as well. Sam stands to the left of Cassie, behind her. The kid's really shot up, Cassie notes dully. John and Mary are talking in low tones with Dean, by the front door. Cassie wonders what it's about; John's face is red with frustration, and Mary has a tight expression. Dean is talking animatedly with his hands and shaking his head no.

Cassie is relieved when six o'clock rolls around, and the company is dwindling. People stopped coming to her after a while, when they saw she didn't respond or even acknowledge. John and Mary left first, which spurred others to realize that maybe their company wasn't welcome.

Cassie waits until it's just her and Dean.

She goes to the freezer and pulls out a bottle of tequila, that's probably been there for years, but she really doesn't care.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks.

"Getting drunk." She pulls out the smallest cups she's got.

"Why?" Dean's standing behind her now, watching her pour the alcohol.

"To forget." Her hand lifts the cup to her mouth, but the glass never touches her lips. Dean's hand is grasping it, preventing her from drinking it.

"Why?" he repeats.

"Because I don't want to feel this! I don't want to feel my heart squeezing, I don't want to feel this weight I have on my shoulders, I don't want to feel anything!"

Dean's really close now, their noses maybe two inches apart. Cassie can feel the warmth of his body, can smell the soap he uses. He's leaning down to get in her face, to show her he means business.

"Don't do this to yourself, Cassie. Just go to bed and we'll talk about it in the morning."

His lips are moving, and Cassie knows all she has to do is propel her body forward, just a bit, and they'll be touching hers.  _That's another way to forget_ , she thinks.

So she does it. She pushes up onto her toes and smashes their lips together. The drink is between them, sloshing a bit as it's moved to the counter. Cassie presses her body against Dean's; the thin black fabric of her shirt feels like nothing.

Dean reciprocates, working his lips with hers. Cassie wants more of him; she  _needs_  more of him. She presses the tip of her tongue against his bottom lip, and he opens up, greeting her with his own tongue. His arms wind around her waist, pulling her even closer. She's got her arms linked around his neck, holding on tight.

Several minutes and some heavy breathing later, Cassie inches her finger to unbutton the shirt she's wearing. Dean picks up on that.

"Stop it," he murmurs against her mouth. He presses his tongue to her lip.

"You wanna do it?" she asks, licking into his mouth.

"No," he breathes against her lips.

"Who, then?" she grins. She starts to undo the next button. It reveals her cleavage.

He growls. Cassie likes that. She unbuttons one more, showing her bra. Dean grabs her fingers and holds them in his, and Cassie's not okay with that. She wants  _skin_. She works her fingers free and tries to unbutton his shirt. She gets two before he's separating their mouths and twisting her to pin her against the counter.

"Stop it," he says again, only it's less of a murmur and more of a demand. Her wrists are held in his hands, and he's holding them to her sides. He's holding her to the counter with his body, which means they're pretty close. Cassie strains to catch his lips again.

"Dammit, Cassie, stop!" he shouts. Cassie stills. "Can't you—why can't you— _dammit_!"

Dean walks away, his feet pounding against the stairs, and Cassie can hear the slam of the door. A little click tells her he locked it.

Cassie resumes her seat on the couch, and doesn't move for hours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassie and Dean meet for the first time in five years.

_Years pass. Cassie moves to Kansas City for a job as a secretary at a law firm. Dean moves to Kansas City for a reason he's unwilling to tell anyone, but no one would be able to guess it. They live four blocks away from each other, and they don't even know it._

Cassie is on her morning run. Well, midmorning. She's got her iPod on high, wanting to block out the traffic noise, the heat of the sun on her back, everything. It's Sunday. She doesn't have work, she doesn't have any obligations at all. Besides feeding her dog, and buying groceries, and returning library books, and cleaning her apartment, and getting herself prepared for the Big Meeting on Monday.

_No—no stressing about the Meeting. None at all._

She crosses the street on 7th instead of turning with the sidewalk, so she's now headed for the café that's big enough for two people and a small table but usually has about thirty people and six tables with an outdoor patio. Cassie likes coffee if it's sweet enough, but seeing as it's the middle of summer in Kansas, she's going for their signature iced green tea, which is freaking to _die_  for.

Cassie gets in line—ridiculously long for this time of day, but she's desperate. When there are about six people in front of her, Luke sees her. He nods to himself and starts preparing her iced tea. They've been best friends since she moved here, and since he's worked at the café since he was twenty, he knows a lot of the regulars, Cassie included. She gets to the register and he hands her the plastic cup filled with ice and light green liquid, and she hands over the exact amount.

"Thanks, Luke," she grins at him, taking a sip and winking.

Luke blushes and grins, "Oh, sweetheart, you know I don't mind! There's an empty table out on the patio, and it's even got a working umbrella for you! I'll see you Friday, Cassie!" Luke waves as he turns to fill the next order. Cassie works her way to the door, when suddenly this thick wall of  _man_  just kind of appears right in front of her.

The cheap plastic of her cup shatters as it's slammed between two people. Most of it gets on Cassie, though. Of course. The ice cold drink is splattered all over her torso. She gasps as it trickles down between her breasts.

She only wishes she hadn't worn the white shirt today. Her white sports bra is visible now, and the iciness of the drink forced her nipples to stand at attention. She drops the broken plastic—and though cheap in may be, that doesn't mean the sharp edge of one of the pieces can't pierce the pad of her thumb.

She can hear a deep voice, saying things about getting her a new drink, repeating apologies like a mantra, but she's just really embarrassed now. She looks at her thumb, mutters, "It's fine, I gotta go," without even looking up.

Fan _tastic_. She bolts out the door, crossing her right arm over her chest and putting her thumb to her lips, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Cassie?" a voice behind her says. Probably Luke, but she'll call him later once she's gotten home, showered, and regained her dignity.

One thing Cassie hated the most was making a scene, out of anything. So now that the entire café has seen her spill her drink all over herself like a toddler who hasn't learned to use big-girl cups just yet, she's thoroughly red-faced in a way she hasn't been in years.

"Cassie!" the voice shouts. Heavy footfalls means he's chasing after her.

Cassie rolls her eyes and turns, replying before she even sees him. "I'll call you later, Luke, just let me get—"

Oh.

That's not Luke.

No, not at all.

Luke is shorter than this man, by a good four inches. Luke is skinnier, lankier, still not grown into his skin like this man obviously is. Luke is bright blond, where this man is light brown. Luke has soft blue eyes, but this man's are green. So green. A shade she hasn't seen since she was a teenager.

Dean.

Dean Winchester.

But he was in Lawrence, working at a mechanical shop, right?

_Shut up, that was five years ago. Look how far you've come._

Well. He certainly  _has_  come a long way from five years ago.

And Cassie thought he couldn't get any more attractive than he was at nineteen.

Well, she was wrong.

Cassie is suddenly acutely aware of her appearance: unbrushed black hair thrown into a ponytail, no make-up, jogging shorts, crappy running shoes, and a white shirt that was sopping wet with sticky green tea, and perky nipples. Oh, and about an hour of running in the Kansas summer heat added enough sweat to ward anyone off.

Normally she doesn't care, because she's on a  _run_ , for Pete's sake, but this is  _Dean_.

Dean, who, through her grief and instability, she had pushed and pushed and  _pushed_  until he'd had no other choice but to leave, to stay out of her life. Cassie had moved in order to get away from all her mistakes, all the trouble she'd caused in those few months between her mother's death and her twentieth birthday. She'd done things that it shames her now to see someone she knew, who knew her during that streak of immaturity.

"Cassie," he says, standing arm's length away.

She turns away from him, letting her humiliation wash over her. She can't feel it, but tears are springing out of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. She puts her hand over her mouth, wanting to scream to let this pain out. Her head is aching with the effort of feeling this bone deep discomfiture.

Cars zoom by on the street beside her. Pedestrians weave their way around the two of them. The world rotates exactly one eighth of a degree before Dean puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't do this to me again, Cas. Please." His voice is lower, softer, but his hand is holding on for dear life.

She twists her shoulder out of his grip. Composes herself. She has to play her role, now, has to prove to him that she's a capable adult who's not like she was. She has to prove to him that she's changed.

She turns around to face him. Her arms hang limp at her sides, her shoulders a little slumped. Try though she might, she can't muster the will to stand up straight like she was taught. Her eyes skate over his body, the body that she's seen countless times, yet it's so new and foreign to her. There are muscles where there used to be soft skin, there are more freckles from the summer sun like she knew there would be, there are scars from accidents she doesn't know anything about, and there's a ring around his right middle finger she's never seen before.

And there's an amulet around his neck that she remembers with far too much clarity.

It's the necklace he gave to her on her sixteenth birthday. It's the necklace that she fiddled with when she was nervous, that she pulled on when she was concentrating hard on something.

It was the necklace she'd dropped in the trash on her way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is boring, I know, but the next one (more exciting, trust me) will be up soon. There will be smooches.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Dean and Cassie smooch, where Dean has too many feels, and Cassie doesn't know what to do with those feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I start to earn that "Explicit" rating.

When she finally meets his eyes, all she can see is relief, pure, unabashed relief. And she doesn’t understand how someone she hurt so much can be _relieved_ at seeing her again. She can’t do much of anything right now. She can’t even breathe. She’s just staring at him, searching for something she doesn’t know she’s looking for.

“Cassie?” Dean reaches his arm out to touch her shoulder. The warmth of his palm seems to have done something to her, because she takes a deep breath and glances away.

“Dean—“

He realizes what she’s going to say, because even after all these years, after all they’ve been through, he’s still her best friend, and they are still strangely in sync. He puts a hand over her mouth.

“Nope. I want you to shut up for a second.” He takes his other hand, digs around in his pocket, and comes up with a Sharpie left over from work. He grabs her hand, replaces his with hers over her mouth, and writes his phone number on it. “You are going to take a cab home—wait, you ran here, didn’t you? Of course you did—you’re going to _run_ home, write that number down or put in your phone or _something_ , and when you’re ready, you’re going to call me, okay? You have two days.”

 

Six days and a couple hours later

Cassie had called Dean, and Dean had said something about it being better to make this reunion over dinner instead of over the phone, and Cassie had agreed to dinner before she knew what was happening. Dinner was slightly awkward at first, because they were both nervous and Cassie was ashamed of her past, but it quickly got better.

They exchanged banter, stories of moving to the city. Cassie talked about her job as a secretary, and asked Dean about what he was doing now. He was quiet about it, changing the subject rather quickly. When the check came, Cassie insisted on splitting it with Dean, as it was _not_ a date, but rather a reunion of old friends. Dean begrudgingly asked the waiter to split it into two.

Dean asked Cassie to come over to his place, for coffee and to continue their discussion. Cassie agrees, because they really were in the middle of riveting conversation. So he led the way, putting his arm around her. Cassie didn’t object.

Dean let them into his apartment, and hurried ahead of her to clean up a bit. He moved several large books off the low table in the living room, threw away a pizza box and few empty beer bottles. Cassie stood at the door and looked around, not sure what to do.

Dean told her to sit down while he made the coffee. She did, crossing her legs at the knee and folding her hands in her lap. Cassie listened to him tinker around the kitchen, listened to the loud, broken sounds of the coffee maker. Dean came in, handed her a mug that proclaimed the logo of KCKCC, the community college in Kansas City. Cassie peered into the mug, to see there was cream and probably lots of sugar, the only way she would drink it.

They talked for a long while, until there was nothing left to say.

Cassie’s mug was empty, so she set it on the coffee table. Dean mirrored her actions. They were on the sofa together, close enough to be considered “close” but far enough away to be decent. Cassie cleared her throat.

“Well, um, I’d better be going, then,” Cassie said quietly.

“Yeah—yeah, I guess you should,” Dean said.

Cassie stood up, made her way to the door. Dean got up to show her out.

And this is where they are, standing less than a foot apart in the small room. Cassie has caffeine buzzing in her system, and the heaviness of the sugar on her mind. She takes one last look at Dean, a slow smile playing on her lips. She’s really glad to have seen him tonight, to be able to reconnect with her best friend after so many years. She sees the way his freckles spot his nose, the small scar on his left cheek. The impossible green that are his eyes, and the ridiculousness of his lips. It’s been _years_ , and she realizes that she never stopped loving him.

Dean looks at Cassie, sees her blue eyes bright with the coffee, or the lateness of the hour, or something else. His eyes trail over her hair, in a long braid tonight, the blackness of it a stark contrast to her white dress. She looks young, with her hair like that. Dean’s close enough to see the tiny, tiny freckles one the side of her neck, unchanged since the last time he’d seen them. Her blue eyes are watching his mouth. It’s been so long, and even through all the pain she’d caused him, he realizes he never stopped loving her.

“ _Mamihlapinatapai_ _,”_ Cassie whispers.

Dean has absolutely no idea what the heck that even means, and he’s fairly certain he could not say it if his life depended on it. The look on his face tells Cassie exactly that.

“It’s Yagán,” Cassie murmurs quietly, almost a whisper. “One of the most difficult words to translate, yet it’s very succinct. It refers, of course, to a look shared between two people who both desire the same thing and, yet, are unwilling to suggest it.”

“Of course,” Dean grumbles. He grabs her waist and pulls her to his chest, claiming her lips with his. Cassie’s back is against the door now, and her hands reach up to grip his neck and shoulders. She opens her lips, her tongue seeking his. Dean’s hands are squeezing, tight, all the way down to her hips where he suddenly jerks her up. Dean is holding Cassie up against the wall, his hands on her ass, her legs around him, giving herself leverage.

All Cassie can think about is Dean’s lips on her throat, the slight scrape of stubble making her breath hitch in her throat. She’s hot, her cheeks are flushed with it, but she loves it, loves feeling the bead of sweat drip down the back of her neck, loves feeling the wetness in her panties. Loves feeling the strength Dean has over her—which is strange, because Cassie usually dominates in these types of situations. But Dean—no, Dean is different, like he’s always been. The pressure of his chest against hers, the hardness of his hands against her body, it made her feel alive, like she could actually _feel_ again. Dean Winchester was always the one to make her feel. 

Dean moves one of his hands to the front of her, reaching under her dress to grasp at her panties. Cassie briefly wonders if they’re going to do it right here against the door, but realizes she doesn’t actually care if they do. She feels his fingers push aside her thong, his thumb slicking in the wetness. She gasps as he brushes her clit, digging her fingernails into his scalp. His mouth is doing something wonderful to the side of her neck, giving her chills. His thumb is stroking her clit, making her breathe heavier and harder.

Cassie moans into Dean’s ear, and suddenly her back’s not against the wall anymore. He’s carrying her across the room, placing her on the couch. His grip loosens just before it tightens, and he’s gripping her waist and she knows there will be bruises and she loves it. She can actually feel this, feel the emotion behind the act, feel him, right there with her. It’s so much more than she’s ever done before; she’s never laid her mind and body and fucking soul out in front of someone like this before. She swears she can feel his soul, too, can tangibly feel this connection. This profound bond.

Cassie thinks it’s too hot in the apartment for Dean to be wearing all these clothes. She scrambles at the top button of his shirt until it comes undone. The other buttons aren’t so lucky: they pop off, scattering onto the floor or the couch beneath them. Cassie pushes his shirt and coat off, needing to touch his skin, only to be hindered by a thin t-shirt.

“So many layers,” she murmurs as she pulls that over his head. Under his shirt is that amulet, that little trinket from when they were young. “I can’t believe you kept this.”

Dean doesn’t reply as he delves deeper into her, trying to get her close in a way that humans just can’t achieve. Dean wants to simply be with her, to exist on a different plane, to do more. He wants to have this thing—this feeling, this palpable emotion—exposed, to show her what he’s feeling as he kisses her hot, and wet, and messy. He wants her to know the joy it gives him to pleasure her, to make her feel.

So Dean settles for the best way that humans can show this feeling: he vows to make love to Cassie, to show her, to tell her, to make her understand. He nibbles along her jaw line as he slips his index finger inside her. He’s positively aching, but he’s honestly not concentrated on that. He’s completely focused on Cassie: her little gasps, her eyes, the small hairs sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

His finger is drenched, so he adds another one, stroking her inside. His fingers are long enough to brush her g-spot, but not long enough to rub it directly. He teases her, brushing clit and g-spot simultaneously. Cassie’s got these little hiccup-breaths, breathing two gasps in, one gasp out. Her head’s thrown back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me, Cas,” Dean says, and Cassie’s eyes open slowly, staring at him as she comes. Her eyes are even darker, almost entirely black, with nothing but the slightest smidgen of blue around the edges. Her muscles squeeze around his fingers, her hips wriggling. Her hands are in fists at his shoulders.

Now, Dean’s a strong man, and stamina’s never really been an issue, but looking into Cassie’s eyes as she lets go, _seeing_ and _feeling_ this woman who he knows he loves orgasm? He almost comes in his trousers. He pulls his fingers gently out, and Cassie whimpers at the loss. Dean bends to kiss her as he unsnaps his pants and fumbles with his wallet for a condom.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, as his wallet fails to produce a silver square packet. He’d have to go all the way to his bathroom to get one, and he _really_ doesn’t want to leave Cassie.

“Just—don’t, I’m on the pill, it’ll be alright,” Cassie says, pulling his head down for another kiss.

“You sure?” he asks, even as he’s pulling at his pants to get them off. Cassie doesn’t reply, just reaches around herself to unzip her white summer dress. She yanks it off, and is left in a white lacy strapless bra, with matching (crooked) thong. She’s extremely glad that she wore matching undergarments for some reason; it’s not like men actually noticed these things.

Cassie pulls off her thong, and reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. Both go on the floor by her dress. Dean’s on her again now, kissing the life out of her. It’s hot and wet and perfect. Dean releases her mouth, and licks one of her nipples. He pulls it between his teeth, making Cassie moan.

Cassie lifts her hips, needing _more_. Dean trails up her neck, lightly biting every so often. She’s dripping wet, hot and needy for his cock. Dean uses his hands to hold her hips, looks into her eyes, and pushes into her. Her fingers clutch his shoulders, her breathing is ragged, but she doesn’t look away from him. Once he’s balls-deep inside her, he pulls out and thrusts back in, setting a fast pace.

Dean can hardly stand it, the sensation of her hot wet pussy directly against his throbbing dick. He’s always worn a condom when he’s slept with anyone, so just _feeling_ Cassie right there with him is perfect. A perfect physical feeling to go along with the perfect emotional aspect.

Cassie flicks her hips up and down, making more friction. She feels her second orgasm bubbling and rushing up inside her, pure white and electric. She can’t contain herself this time around; she screams wordlessly, clenching around Dean’s cock.

Dean’s done for—the feeling of Cassie’s cunt so tight around his cock, so hot and wet and _Cassie_ , hearing her scream for him, because of him is too much. He gives one final thrust into her, and he’s coming hard, harder than he has in a long time. 

They’re panting heavily, watching each other. Dean pulls out, flips them around so that Cassie is lying on him. She hasn’t gotten any larger than she was in sophomore year in high school, but Dean’s gained muscle mass and a few more inches since they were nineteen.

Dean fiddles for a moment, before Cassie feels the necklace— _her_ necklace—settle around her neck as he fastens it on her.

“I love you, Cassie,” Dean whispers. “I’ve always loved you.”

Suddenly Cassie can’t breathe, she’s being suffocated. _It’s too much._

Cassie stands up, throws her dress on and zips up the back as far as she can reach it, grabs her heels from by the front door. She walks out the door, slamming it behind her. She half-jogs down the street, thankful for the late hour. There are only a few people out, and they don’t pay her any mind.

About half way to her apartment, she puts her shoes on. Wearing heels is better than going barefoot in the city, even if it was just four blocks.

She opens the door to her apartment, closes it carefully behind her. Cassie sinks to the floor, and she can feel the tears that have been streaming steadily down her face since she slammed Dean’s door. She sobs.

Being with Dean was possibly one of the most intimate things she’d ever done in her life. She’d felt so open, like they were reading each other perfectly. She loved him. She really did.

But she couldn’t help but feeling smothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow I was taking a lot of cold medicine when I wrote this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cassie make some poor choices, and everything goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning is due, here: there is some self-harm, some references to past drug use, and suicidal thoughts. I just want everyone to know what's in this chapter.

 

 

Cassie fills up her tub with water that's hotter than it needs to be. She kicks off her heels, unzips her dress, and sinks into the bath. The water is scalding, turning her creamy skin into angry pink. She feels like she's being boiled. She grits her teeth, clasps the sides of the tub. Her tears fall into the bath water.

She doesn't know why she did it. She doesn't know why she even agreed to go to dinner. That's a lie. She knows exactly why she went to dinner, why she went with him to his apartment. She missed him, she needed to tell him how sorry she was for fucking everything up. She needed to see him happy one last time, because she'd never been able to get that last image of him out of her head. Of when she walked out of the door, let the necklace drop into the trash bin, and screamed that she wished she would never see him, that she would never have to see his sorry excuse for a man ever again. That she wished they both were dead.

He hadn't been crying then, but his eyes were wet and bright, scared. His hands were in his hair, pulling. His eyes were so dark they were hardly even green at all. 1

But why is she such a coward that she can't even face her own feelings? Here, in the silence of her own house, she can feel the edges of it. But she is still terrified of what's beyond those edges. She knows that she wants to be near Dean, that he takes the darkness away, but what does that even mean?

Cassie feels the guilt, the pain, everything just washing over her, threatening to destroy her. She remembers how she would deal with these feelings five years ago. She'd take a few pills, shoot something into her veins. She'd go on a rampage, peeling the wallpaper off the walls of her mother's house, scratching messages to herself in the wainscoting with her fingernails, clawing up the floorboards in her bedroom. But now she doesn't have any drugs, put herself into her own sort of rehab when she moved to the city. But she wishes she had some, and it's not the first time for that. She wants just a little cocaine, maybe a few LSD tabs. She doesn't want to _feel_ anything. She wants to take her mind off of it all, to do something that is better and more fun than this. Her head is starting to hurt.

She knows she's hurt him again, sweet Dean. She tears them in two, how can she ever hope to make more of this, if this is all she can ever do?

Cassie lowers herself all the way into the water.

_I am crying_ , she thinks. She opens her eyes to stare through the hot, stinging water.  _I'm crying, but it's impossible to tell because I'm underwater. Maybe I'm not crying anymore, then._

She holds her breath for as long as she can, and then holds it for a few seconds longer. Her vision goes white, her lungs are burning. Then she blacks out.

* * *

 

Dean is in his apartment, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His right hand is resting on his stomach, with bruised and bloody knuckles. Two are broken. He's trying to sleep, to get rid of these thoughts he has, the thoughts that are flashing neon signs in his brain, exclaiming, WORTHLESS, CAN'T KEEP IT TOGETHER, NOT GOOD ENOUGH, NEVER BEEN GOOD ENOUGH.

_She never loved you, how could you be so stupid to think she could possibly love some idiot like you? You're nothing but a dead-beat son, it's your fault. It's all your fault. You can't do anything right._

He gets out of bed, walks to the kitchen, and grabs the bottle of hydrocodone from when he had his appendix removed. Pops a few into his mouth, followed by two mouthfuls of vodka from the freezer. He goes to lie down, and he's out within moments.

* * *

 

Dean wakes up three hours later, on the floor with a pile of vomit two inches from his face. He groans, tries to scoot himself away from it. His body doesn't want to respond, it's screaming at him, but he is able to roll over so that he doesn't have to smell it.

Some giant mutant person is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, holding a phone to its ear. The voice is too low for Dean to hear anything, or maybe it's just the blood rushing through his ears. Whatever. Scary giant man (he assumes it's a man, because, seriously, what chick is six and half feet tall?) can do whatever he wants. Dean's too numb for anything right now.

His bladder cannot be ignored, though, so he tries to get up. He's tangled up in his bed sheet, so he kicks his legs like a toddler trying to get out. When he realizes he's naked, he gets really, _really_ , confused. He shoots a look over to Jolly Green right as he steps into the room, into the light.

"Sam?"

"Put some pants on."

"Sam."

"Dude, we are not having this conversation with you naked."

Sam throws a pair of jeans at Dean's head. Dean would have caught them, but, well, he's a little out of it. He's pretty sure that he's having some sort of pipe dream, and he wonders if he took the right pills. 'Cause Sam has long hair (really long, like touching his shoulder long) and is taller than Dean, and looks like the poster boy for steroids. Like, seriously. And what's with the v-neck?

Sam looks away while Dean struggles to stand up. When Dean falls for the third time, Sam mutters something and comes to help him. Dean staggers to the bathroom, makes more of a mess peeing than he thinks is worth an empty bladder, and Sam helps him pull the jeans on. Once everything's tucked away and Dean's got a sweatshirt on, too, Sam pushes him onto the sofa.

Dean wants to cry. He doesn't want to sit on this sofa.

"Alright. Tell me what in the hell you were thinking, Dean." Sam is sitting on the coffee table, glaring. The bottle of pills and the vodka are there, watching him, taunting him. Sam has on puppy eyes—which was totally Not Cool, because Dean hasn't seen Sam in like two years, they barely talked on the phone at all, and  _he pulls out the puppy eyes._

"Dunno what you're talkin' 'bout, Sammy. Hey, aren't you suppos'd to be in California or some'n? Doin' college?" Dean shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. His head hurts.

"What in the hell were you thinking, Dean?! Pills  _and_  alcohol? How many of the pills did you take? How much did you drink? Is this gonna be the same crap you pulled when Cassie left?"

"Don't—don't you dare—"

"No! Dean, no! You dropped off the grid for  _months_ , man, and then you came stumbling back, sicker than anything. I tried so damn hard to get you to stop destroying yourself, and—god—the only thing that made you stop was her. You swore you were gonna find her. You know damn well she was the only good thing that ever happened to you, so you moved out here, trying to find her. And you were doing good, as far as I could tell. Maybe I was wrong."

"No, man. 'M sorry. I—I'm so sorry, man." Dean's words become unintelligible, more sounds than anything. He's crying now, crying for the first time in years. To be honest with himself, it's the first time he's cried since Cassie first left. Sam's got his giant monster arms around him, squeezing him.

"How long has this been going on? The pills?"

"This is the first time, I swear, Sam. I never ev'n took 'em when I got my 'pendix took out. I dunno how many I took, I just di'n't wanna feel no more."

Sam mumbles something that sounds like a grammar correction, but Dean's too tired to care.

"Don' even know why I still have 'em, been sittin' in the cab'net for a couple months. I di'n't try to kill myself, Sammy, I swear, I wouldn' do that to you. I love you, Sammy, god, I miss you so damn much." Dean wraps his arms around his little (it doesn't matter that Sam's a freaking giant, he's still younger than him, dammit) brother and doesn't want to let go. He's afraid that if he does, he'll fall to pieces that not even all the king's horses and all the king's men can put back together.

Dean alternates between "sorry, so sorry" and "I love you, Sammy" for a good hour before he falls asleep. Sam sighs, throws a blanket over him, and looks for bleach. The tile in the bedroom covered in vomit isn't going to clean itself.

Sam putters around a bit, flushing the bottle of hydrocodone down the toilet (after counting them; if what Dean said is true, then he took six), bleaching and washing the bedroom floor to get the bile off. There were six little white things in the vomit (Sam almost lost his stomach twice just looking at it), the remnants of the large pills.

Sam had planned on surprising Dean by showing up on his doorstep, but his flight from California had delayed, and he hadn't shown up until about two in the morning. He knocked on the apartment door, rang the bell, called Dean's cell. Nothing. Sam, being the worry-wart he is (and rightfully so, thank you) assumed Dean was being held hostage by a robber or had fallen and couldn't get up, so he busted the door down—which he planned on fixing. The door jamb was broken, and currently being held closed with some tape and a chair.

He walked around the apartment, saw the pill bottle and vodka, dropped his bag and ran to the bedroom, where Dean was face down in his bed, wrapped (naked) in a sheet. Sam tried to wake him up, but Dean's eyes wouldn't open of their own accord. His pupils were teeny pinpoints amongst the green—which looked more gray than green—and Sam checked for a pulse. Slow, too slow. His breathing was shallow, and he only took two breaths in thirty seconds.

Sam pulled Dean to the floor, and forced his fingers down Dean's throat. Dean coughed and sputtered after emptying his stomach, his eyes fluttering. Dean groaned and tried to push himself away. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He washed his hands in the sink as his phone rang. Dad—seeing if he'd gotten in okay. They talked for a minute, Sam pretending he was trying to sleep. Dean was awake now.

After Sam cleans, puts his duffel bag by Dean's room, he goes to wake him up. Sam makes coffee and pours two cups. Dean drinks his quickly, eyes wide.

"Tell me why," Sam says, sitting next to him.

Dean, thinking of other things, (namely, what had happened on the very sofa they are sitting on not six hours before) blinks.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you take the pills?"

Dean sighs and looks away.

"I found her. After three years of searching, and waiting, I walked into her at a coffee shop."

"So how did meeting her lead to near-death experience?"

"I'm getting there, shut up. I ran into her at the coffee place, only I didn't know it was her. But then I did, and we didn't even really talk, but I gave her my phone number and told her to call. We ended up going out to dinner, and then we came back to my place to talk and have coffee."

"And?"

"And what?"

"That doesn't sound like something to get you so worked up about."

"Fine! We screwed on the couch, I told her I loved her, and she left!"

Sam considers that for a moment, and then leaps off the couch onto the coffee table. Dean rolls his eyes. "Wait, why did you tell her you loved her?"

"Because I do, dammit! I think I always have. God, and it was more than sex, Sam, it was like we had this bond, like our souls were connected. It was amazing, I—I couldn't help myself, I had to tell her. I had to tell her I love her."

"You really sound like a chick right now, dude." Sam grins at him and nudges his brother's knee with his foot.

Dean growls and shoots off the couch. He sways with vertigo, but Sam's there to catch him. Dean pushes him away and heads to the kitchen. He reaches for a beer, but Sam's glare has him putting it back, and reaching for soda instead.

"I'm serious, Sam. I love her. I've loved her since—shit, probably since eighth grade. But she obviously doesn't feel the same, so what am I supposed to do?"

Sam sighs, and sits at the barstool there. "Go get her. Find her again. Make her listen. It worked for me."

Dean nods to himself, then pauses and turns to look at his brother. "Worked for you?"

Sam smiles a little, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He produces a small photo of himself and a blonde woman, posing in a field.

"That's my girlfriend, Jessica. We both did things we regretted, but I figured that I couldn't live without her. Because I loved her, because I'd always loved her, ever since I saw her. It was stupid, and I honestly don't know how I never did, but I'd never told her I loved her. So I chased her down, and told her everything."

" _You really sound like a chick right now, dude_ ," Dean imitates in a falsetto. Sam grins, plucking the photo out of Dean's fingers and placing it carefully back in his wallet. He stands.

"Go take a shower, and go after her," Sam instructs, leaving the room.

Dean considers it, replays everything that happened last night. Checks his watch. It's 5:32 am. Replays it again, staggering over his words. Again, stopping to remember Cassie's eyes, how they were the bluest blue he'd ever seen, even with her pupils blown wide. How he could have sworn there was something in there besides lust.

He replays it again and again, until he's left imagining ways it could have gone, if Cassie had just stayed for a minute to let him explain. If he'd even be man enough to say anything, or if he would just sit there like a dead fish with his mouth open.

He makes his decision, and hops into the shower. He's dressed and out the door in record time, walking to the building the Cassie pointed out the night before. As he nears the old brick building, he sees the flashing lights and the crowd.

There are blue and red lights, coming from police vehicles and an ambulance.

His feet stumble a bit as he sees the large van with  _WYNADOTTE COUNTY CORONER_  printed on the sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was by far the hardest thing I've ever written, from the sheer emotional aspect of it.
> 
> It's taken me seven billion years to finish it, but ta-da.
> 
> 1: This is the specific image I had in my head: http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lm4r18Qhbi1qg7hbz.gif 
> 
> Just a bit of reference: I had Placebo's "Because I Want You" playing in my head during Cassie's scene. It's kind of key.


End file.
